Small Things
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: House is depressed, and things got pretty bad before Wilson mannaged to figure out just how bad it was. Takes place after Half Wit. Wilson suggested House start small, pizza with a friend This is slash HouseWilson. If you don't like that don't read it.
1. Pizza With A Friend

WARNING: this contains spoilers for Half Wit. So I'm a bit scattered lately. I've been starting pieces up left and right, without bothering to finish them, and you guys have to carry the brunt of that. So I apologize for that, but after the scene where Wilson and House talk about his plan to have drugs injected directly into his brain and Wilson suggests that House try something else for his depression.

"_Dear friend, what's the time?   
Is this really the borderline?  
Does it really mean so much to you?  
Are you afraid, or is it true?" Paul McCartney_

"I know you have a policy on this sort of thing, but could you at least, consider talking to me the next time you get an idea as using major brain surgery as a means to get high?" He may have agreed to let me come over and eat pizza with him, but he doesn't respond. I know he heard me, because House looked up just long enough to listen to what I had to say. Then he went back to picking the little bubbles of burnt, hardened cheese off of the slice of pizza in front of him.

I know he heard me and yet he doesn't say a word, not one. He just sits there, in complete silence, eating his pizza and attempting to ignore me. Then after three all but unbearable hours, when I'm about to get up and leave, he looks at me, and smiles. However, he stops when he sees that, as is almost always the case, I am not even slightly amused.

"Oh come on, Jimmy—this isn't even close to the worst thing I've ever one. It's not even the worst thing I've done this year." Then he picks up one of the discarded cheese bubbles and flicks it at me. I can't believe that after all this time, House still finds ways to shock and horrify me. You'd think that by now either I would have gotten used to him or he might mellow out a little, but I think he's actually gotten worse.

I'm not mad him—alright, I am pissed, but I'll be over that in a day or two. The most difficult part out of all of this is not the fighting or the way he doesn't even seem to care whether or not he hurts me—pushes me away. If all he did was piss me off by doing some little annoying thing like stealing my food and refusing to do the dishes, I could deal with all those things and more.

I'd like to think I wouldn't even get mad anymore and that eventually, when he realized he wasn't getting to me at all, House would give up and act like a normal person, but I'm pretty anal retentive and overly sensitive. So I know that no matter how small the offenses might be, I'd still get angry from time to time, and we'd still fight, but for now, the small things hardly even register.

The worst part out of all of this is how he doesn't seem to care, not about me, not about his job, not even about his own safety, health, and well being. How am I supposed to try and help someone who doesn't want it? What can I do for somebody who doesn't give a shit? "If it makes you feel any better," he says after another long, uncomfortable silence, "I never meant for anybody to find out." Then he gives me that look, the 'please don't completely hate my guts,' look.

"Of course that doesn't make me feel better. The fact that you were going to have BRAIN SURGERY, without telling me is—it's huge! And you don't even—what the—what do you want me to say?"

"Tell me you understand. It's not a big deal. You forgive me, and you want to just forget this whole thing. Or don't say anything at all. Go back to your hotel and ignore me, like you always do when you're pissed off." Unfortunately, I'm all too familiar with the many moods of House. This is the passive aggressive, semi-depressed, and pissed off House. Somehow he manages to experience three or four moods at once, which I suppose makes up for all the times when he has no emotional at all.

"Are you kicking me out?" I ask, wanting desperately to hear him say no, but of course I don't get a response. This is a test. If I leave without saying a word, I fail, but if I stay, continue to lecture and fight him, I also fail. Frankly, I'm not sure there is a way for me to pass his tests. I could always give in, pretend none of this matters, or that I don't care, act like I'm not worried. Only, I don't think I can do that.

I'm so scared. None of us thought he was this bad. Nobody saw it coming, and I can't help but wonder if we should have. The last time I ignored his dangerous, drug seeking behavior, House almost went to prison. I damn near lost him once already—more than once even, but only once this year—I'm not sure I could go through all of that again.

"Whatever. I don't care. Stay here. Go Home. It doesn't make any difference to me." Then he pulls himself up, stumbles into the den, flips on the TV, and turns the volume up loud enough to make the walls rattle. After I throw out the garbage and wash the dishes, I stand in the doorway, watching him watch TV. "If you plan on staying, can you at least make yourself useful and get me a beer?" he calls out when about half an hour has gone by.

I don't say anything, not right away. For the most part I'm still trying to figure out what to do. Life doesn't exactly come with instructions, but you do know how to handle most situations. However, what you're supposed to do when your best friend pretends to have brain cancer so that he can get drugs injected directly into his brain…well that's not exactly common sense.

"First I need you to promise me you're never going to do anything like that ever again." The words come to me suddenly, leaping out of my mouth before I'm even sure what I'm saying, but I think it's good. I mean, it doesn't sound horrible, and if you ask me, there's no way I'm expecting too much with this request.

"I doubt I could pull it off a second time. Plus, really, how many chances am I going to have to get drugs injected directly into the pleasure center of my brain," House informs me, muting the television and chuckling to himself a little.

"That's not even close to a promise," I say, but bring him a beer all the same. When I sit on his sofa, House doesn't say anything. He does look at me though. "Please. Don't I have enough to worry about without adding you trying to have brain surgery done unnecessarily?"

"Probably, but that's not entirely my fault. What? It's not. You worry about your patients, care about them. Hell you even slept with one of them. Even I haven't crossed that line," he exclaims. "Oh for crying out loud. Do you have any idea how annoying you are?"

"Yes. I think I do, but I'm pretty sure we're at the very least even on that particular front. And you still haven't given me an answer by the way." He's listening to me right now, really listening, which is rare for him and I know I ought to take advantage of the situation. I should lecture him about how much Vicodin he takes, or the drinking or the motorcycle, or all of it, but I don't wanna risk losing everything we've worked so hard for. House looks at me for a minute, studying me, dissecting me, making up his mind, deciding what to say.

This should be easy. All he has to say is yes, or okay. I don't expect to hear the words, I promise, even though it would be nice. "Just say something, please. Anything you want, even if the answer is—even if you won't promise anything. I need to know."

"Welcome to my world. Don't look at me like that. Okay. Okay—I won't do that again. I won't even try. Look, you gotta understand something. I'm in pain all the time, and if I can actually get in the right position, with the right number of pills, I get maybe two hours a day completely free of that pain. I'm just trying to find a way to increase that amount of time."

If only that were true. I wish everything could be simple and that all he wanted was to get rid of his pain. I guess it's true what he says; everybody lies. I just wish I knew how to help him, but I never seem to have the answer. I never seem to have any when it comes to House.


	2. Don't Sweat

AN: I don't think I'm finished, but it might be a couple of days before I have an update. I'm not really sure where to go from here. Obviously House and Wilson are never going to have a happily ever after, so how good can I make things?

"I thought I was smart - I thought I was right  
I thought it better not to fight - I thought there was a  
Virtue in always being cool - so when it came time to  
Fight I thought I'll just step aside and that the time would  
Prove you wrong and that you would be the fool," The Flaming Lips

One of the things I've discovered after years of spending the night at House's place, is that when I stay here, I rarely get any real rest. Most nights I stay up, just watching him sleep and I worry. To night there's a lot for me to think about—especially what with him going to all the trouble of faking cancer without ever telling me, without saying a word.

I'm worried, not because of anything he's done specifically, or rather what he almost did. What concerns me is the fact that he didn't even think about coming to me first; he never came to me. I never thought it was this bad, not in a million years. I only even found out on accident, and if I couldn't see this coming how am I ever going to see something bigger? How can I expect to see him slipping when I'm so easily blinded, distracted, fooled?

"You're staring again," House informs me, groggily lifting his head up from the pillow. "Why?" Then he turns, looks over at the clock, and moans in a loud voice. "It's 6:00 am. Did you know that? Now I'll never get back to sleep."

"I'm—sorry about that, but it's probably a good thing you're up. We need to talk. Don't—don't roll your eyes at me. I just got—I was thinking…you never answered my question, by the way."

"Which question?" he asks, sitting up and reaching for the bottle of Vicodin. "You ask me _a lot_ of questions. So you'll need to be more specific." I can't tell whether or not he's being truthful right now. Actually, I can only tell one lie in about a thousand. He's the one who can spot a lie with his eyes closed and both hands tied behind his back, not me.

"I asked, just how depressed are you? You made one of your usual annoyingly sarcastic jokes, but you didn't answers me, you didn't even make an attempt to."

"I'm not. I just wanted to see what it was like. It's the same reason I do everything else. I'm in pain, and all I'm trying to do is make that stoop, or at least take my mind off of it for a while."

"I'm not going to pretend I understand how you feel. The level of pain you're in—I can't even imagine what that would be like to deal with for a day, let alone all the time, but that doesn't just explain every…"

"Okay so, I piss some people off, but I've been doing that ever since I learned how to talk. Nobody likes me. I don't expect them to. I don't even really care either way. The drugs take away my pain just enough to let me do my job."

"And your solution to being in pain was what? You were about to let someone crack your skull open and inject drugs into your brain. Did you think you could just come back to work like nothing had happened? Did you think I wasn't going—did you think nobody would notice?" I ask. House shrugs, reaches over to touch my face, but drops his hand when I don't respond. "I'm scared. You could have—that could have killed you, and…do you even care?"

"Sure I do. No matter what you may think, I wasn't trying to kill myself this time. I figured—I just thought I could make myself feel a little better and then maybe everything else would be easier as well."

"If this was just about the pain, you would have come to me. You always come to me, almost always. You come to me for just about out everything. Why didn't you just say something?"

"Because I knew you would make a big deal out of it, and part of me," he stops, taking a deep breath. "I didn't want anyone to know how bad it had gotten."

"You take enough Vicodin before you go to work in the morning to put most people into a blind stupor, and you keep doing that all day long. I don't think anyone, patients or doctors, who hasn't seen you. And besides, you don't give a rat's ass what people think."

"I don't care what just anybody thinks but I do care—I care about. I didn't want you to know; there I said it, satisfied?" He says this calmly, but he's upset, a little angry and even a little bit scared.

"I'm the one who sticks by you through everything. I've lost three wives to be with you. I was prepared to give up my job and go to prison for you. I love you. That has to count for something, and you know it. Why would you hide this form me?"

"I didn't want anything to get in my way. I didn't want you to try and stop me, because you would have. If you had found out, if I had told you, you would have done everything in your power to stop me."

"How do I know you aren't going to go out and try to something completely insane like that again? And don't use the fact that you'll never get into this trial as an excuse because we both know there are other things—other ways for you to get what you want."

"You think I'm desperate enough to go to some back alley surgeon, so I can get crazy cool brain drugs? I'm not an idiot. Besides, you made me promise not to do it again anyway. So what exactly are you worried about here, anyway?"

"You! I'm scared to death that I'm going to lose you. There are plenty of stages we've been through. You've pulled a million crazy stunts before this, but I've never seen you go from zero to brain surgery without at least some warning. I'm scared because I didn't see this coming. I had no idea that you were even thinking of doing something like this."

"The only problem with your logic is that I'm not at zero. I wasn't. I don't think I ever have been. On the other hand, had you bothered to pay attention you would have noticed that I've been going through my prescriptions twice as fast as usual the past few weeks."

I feel myself closing my eyes, as I'm trying to visualize how many pills he takes every day, and whether that number has in fact increased any time recently, but I honestly can't tell either way.

"Was that another test? You wanted to get caught, wanted me to stop you, call you insane, or anything, and I wasn't paying close enough attention. I'm sorry." He looks over at me and sighs. "Is the pain worse or was this whole thing a new form of an attention getting technique?"

When I ask this question, he doesn't say anything, not right away, at least. For a while, he just looks at me, and then he turns away, staring at his leg. I don't know what to tell him right now. I wish I had noticed, and had said or done something. I'm pissed at myself more than I'm angry at him. I should have known that he was up to something.

"My leg hurts. What difference does it make how much or how little?" he asks. "More pain means I have to take more pills, and when it's not as bad I don't." I'm not even going to bother with that one. I mean, really what's the point of us arguing about the pills?

I always say that the small things don't get to me, that I can let his little problems go because we have bigger problems, or because there aren't any big ones and so I don't want to rock the preverbal boat. The problem, of course, is that the small things always seem to turn into something big.

Last year he comes to me, after the Ketamine treatment, and he says that he's in pain, and can he have some Vicodin. I said no and he sulked for a while, and seemed to forget about it. Only he didn't. The pain got worse and he really did need prescriptions and forgot he even asked the first time. Then he gets himself arrested and it snowballed even worse from there, especially when I found out about the forged prescriptions.

I think the same sort of thing is how we got to where we are right now. The truth is that I can't ignore anything anymore, no matter how small I think it is. I have to watch him like a hawk, but before that I need to make up for having completely missed a whole shitload of little things that built up to him almost—I have to make up for having hurt him.

"I'm sorry. I screwed up again. I ignored all of the signs. I let you push me away, and I hurt you. I'm sorry, again, for that. What do you way we take the day off, hang around here, talk, relax, or should I just give up and go back to my hotel and start preparing myself for…whatever you're gonna try next?"

"You can stay," he tells me, getting up slowly, and making his way to the bathroom. Then he calls over his shoulder. "But you have to make me breakfast, and wash the dishes."

"I think I can handle that," I tell him, as I walk into the kitchen. When House joins me again, there's a small smile on his face, and I think that we just might be able to make it after all.


	3. Depression

AN: so there's a new House on Tuesday, which means an update after that is done.

"But can we still be friends  
Its a strange, sad affair  
Sometimes seems like we just don't care  
Don't waste time feeling hurt  
We've been through hell together," Todd Rundgren

"You know what I think?" House asks, looking up at me between stuffing strips of bacon and pancake into his mouth.

"Never in all the time since you and I have known each other," is the strongest response I can manage. He smiles at this, which I think is a good sign, but then again, I thought he was doing all right lately.

"That's good. Now we're both annoying and sarcastic, although I'm not sure how well that'll go over with _your_ patients…anyway, I think your problem is not that you worry a bout me because you care, you care about everyone—people you've never even met. What's got your shorts all bunched up is that you're trying to 'save me,' or whatever you want to call it, but you never have any time to worry about yourself, and you're scared that if you haven't got me to work on, if you fail at this, then it's like everything you ever did was a waste. At that point, you think, you'll be so screwed up that nobody will e able to put you back together. You want me to be depressed, so you can focus on that instead of the fact that you're just as miserable as me."

House concludes this speech by leaning across the table and spearing the last pancake from my plate, and eating it. He watches me for a long time, not saying a word, maybe because he has nothing to add, or more likely because he knows he's made his point. "Are you going to sit there all day, with your moth hanging open like an idiot, or are you going to admit that you're the only one in this relationship who has a problem with things the way they are, so everything can go back to the way it was before?"

I look away, at the stove, sink, the fried, the floor, the walls, anything except him. I can't look at him, because as soon as our eyes meet, we're going to have to talk, and I'm not sure I can answer that question. At least, not in any way he would wanna hear. "Jimmy?" he asks, almost managing to sound like he actually cares about me.

"I'm not sure things can ever go back to the way they were," I tell him at last, after what seems like hours. "You didn't put my hand in a pot of warm water while I was sleeping. You lied to me, betrayed my trust. You _hurt_ me, and I can't just forget something like that."

"I didn't ask you to forget it. I didn't even ask for your forgiveness. I'm not dying; I'm not even thinking about death. All I did was," and this is where I have to cut him off. After everything we've been through, he still doesn't get it. He doesn't think he did anything wrong, and that scares me. As far as what he said, of course I'm depressed I'm middle-aged and all I have to show for it is my job, three failed marriages, and this screwed up relationship. I drive a shitty car and live in an even shittier hotel. Even when I do spend the night here, I end up not getting any sleep, because I stay up all night worrying about House.

My best friend—oh who am I kidding—my only friend, the man I love, lies to me so often that I can't ever really trust him, and we've hurt each other more times than I can count. With this life, who wouldn't be depressed?

"That's the whole problem? You dons't even realize how serious what you did is. You don't even care. It's not okay. You're not okay! Neither am I, but I wasn't the one about to…"

"The only reason you're making a big deal out of this is because I didn't tell you, and the only reason for that was that I didn't want you to try and stop me."

"So basically, what your saying is that you're not depressed?" I ask. "Not in any way?" House nods, leaning back in his chair. "You just wanted to see what would happen?"

"Exactly," he says, almost immediately, and I wait a couple of minutes so he can think about this some more, and be at least a little bit honest with me. When he doesn't respond, I figure I might as well pretend I believe him, because there are still plenty of things about his behavior that make this a big deal.

"Even if I believed you—even if I fell for this, stupid, 'it's no big deal. I was just curious,' line—what would have happened if you had gotten away with this? What would you have done if you had gone ahead with the surgery, gotten the drugs, and come back to work as if nothing had happened? What's the next step on the, 'I wonder how this would feel,' ladder? How far would you have gone before stopping, that is assuming you would stop?"

"I think you should go now," is the response he gives me, and then, as if throwing me out, House gets up and limps over to the door, holding it open for me. "That's the next rung." When I don't move he goes from mildly annoyed directly into pissed. "Get the hell out of here!"

"No. Not until—no." I watch as he slams the door, and makes his way back into the den, plopping onto the couch, without looking at me the whole time. He doesn't even look at me when he starts to talk again.

"I don't want you here. Your going away would make me feel better. Wanna cure my 'depression,' go home, go back to your little hotel and never come back."

"Which, would once again prove that you're nothing but a worthless, miserable bastard, who nobody can love. That's what you really want isn't it? If I leave then you're right about everything, and what you did was perfectly logical, and there was nothing wrong with it."

"So you're going to stay here and make me miserable in order to...keep me from having to be a lone and miserable? Great plan. No wonder you manage to save so many dying people—oh wait that's right, you don't."

"If I stay, you'll call me names all afternoon, but you know that I still love you. You're gonna have to do a lot worse to make me stop—that is if I can top, but as long as I'm here, that's one person who's not going to walk away and never come back."

"You think that if you care enough, you'll undo all of the—that it'll make up for the fact that nobody else does? Loving me makes you the good guy, doesn't it, Jimmy? Loving me makes you a saint, _that_ is why you stay."

"No. Loving you is normal. People love each other. Putting up with your insanity and sticking around, and living with you, and well mostly putting up with you is enough to get me anointed for sainthood."

"Do you really love me, or are you just saying that to make me feel—you know," he asks, looking up at me for a minute and then his eyes drop back to the ground.

"Trust me, if I could make myself hate you, if I didn't care, I wouldn't even work in the same state. If I didn't love you I'd move so far away that even you wouldn't be able to find me again. This isn't easy, but I'm not leaving and I don't think I'll ever stop."

House watches me for a long time, as if trying to figure out if I'm attempting to bullshit him. He looks me over for a long time, waiting for something in my face to tell him the truth. Three hours go by and finally he gives in. He believes me.

"So, what exactly do you think we should do?" he asks, and all I can do is shrug. "You want to talk more, don't you?" I nod. "Fine, but at least get me a beer or something first," he warns, starting to get up, and popping more pills.

"I'll get them," I tell him, and I do, and then I sit next to him and we pop the tops off, practically in unison.


	4. The Heart Of The Bladder

"I'm learning to live without you now, but I miss you sometimes, and the more I know, the less I understand. All the things I thought I knew I'm learning again.

I been trying to get down to the heart of the matter, but my will gets weak and my thoughts seem to scatter, but I think it's about forgiveness (x2) even if, even if you don't love me any more," Don Henley

Obviously we do not talk that day, or the next one, or even the one after that. The two of us fall into our usual pattern and we don't see each other for a week or so, after that House was pretty much focused on the patient, trying to figured out how he knew him, and also his own health problem.

I know better than to fight with him over the pills. I know it, and so when he lets me take him home, I don't mention it. I don't say anything as we eat dinner, or when we watch TV, or make love. I don't brig up the pills as he swallows a fistful of Vicodin and lays down to fall asleep.

In all that time I don't say a word, but once he's out, I lean my face over his, running my fingers through his hair, stroking his cheeks, dragging my fingers slowly down his chest, and then and only then do I say something. I press my lips right up to his ear, but the words barely even make it out as a whisper.

"Please," I beg, knowing he'd never hear me, even if he wasn't asleep. "Slow down, for me." There's no response, and it's all I can do not to start balling like a baby. "I don't think it's asking too much. You say you aren't depressed, but you refuse to let me anywhere near you most nights. You don't let me stay over anymore. Oh who am I kidding? You rarely even let me come in with you. You just come home at the end of the day, pop a couple extra pills, drink yourself into a stupor, and fall asleep on the couch.

"You say you have everything under control, but you drink too much, take too many pills, drive dangerously. You're actually making yourself sick, physically sick and I'm terrified that one of these days I'm gonna come over and find you—gone—dead. IT wouldn't even have been suicide, not really. You know that a body can only withstand so much trauma, abuse… Even if you weren't depressed the pills would still be enough to kill you.

"You didn't urinate for three days. Three days! That didn't even faze you. You act like it's just some completely normal thing that happens to everybody from time to time. You can figure out what's wrong with anybody, and you can fix it, that's your job, but when it comes to your own health…

"I love you. I love you! I don't care that you're damaged. I don't care that you don't care about anything at all. I'm not even asking that you give up the pills. All I want is for you to slow down. Don't take five, six, seven at a time, don't take them unless you really need it, and stop chewing them. It breaks my heart seeing that. No more morphine, Oxycodone, or anything else like that. No more _I'm angry, or bored so I think I'll take more pills_. No more I just wanted to see what would happens.

"And if you get sick, if something goes wrong, come to me. I want to help. I will help, I know how to help you, you know how to help yourself, but you want to hear it from me so that you don't have to admit that this whole Vicodin thing just might be a problem. I will help you if you need it, but you have to actually do what I say. Nothing is fast.

"I know. You hate waiting. You hate—everything, but please, for me, for my sake. I love you and I don't wanna lose you. I'm not sure if I could handle that. Greg, please. You're the only good thing left in my life. It might not be easy but I think we might make it. I think you could be, not happy—but close.

"I think we can do it. You and me, the two of us, if we work together, I think we can be okay. Just say something, so I know you can hear me. Tell me you love me. Tell me that it's going to be okay. Tell me that you're willing to you think we can do this. Tell me you love me. Tell me something, anything. Just open your mouth and make a sound. I don't care if you pretend to burp or tell me to shut up, just say something, anything."

Of course, he's asleep, and so he doesn't say anything, not that I expected him too, but it would have been nice. Oh well, it's late, all I can do now is try and get some sleep. Maybe House and I will talk in the morning. Maybe we won't. Maybe we'll work things out, doubtful as that may seem. Maybe I'll tell him how I really feel.

No, I already, you know. There's no way for tat to happen. Could he have been right? AM I the only one who has a problem, because I think that he needs to be fixed? Well he does. He's in pain. He's scared. He's angry. Things are not good. He has no friends, except for me and half of the time, I'm so mad I can't even stand him. He takes too many pills. He drives his bike like he doesn't care whether he lives or dies.

If he weren't so brilliant he would have been out of a job and institutionalized a long time ago and yet I love him. I love him with every fiber of my being and that is exactly what makes this whole damn thing so difficult. I feel like…. No, I am. I'm loosing him and I don't think there's anything I can do to stop it.

"Fine," a voice says in the darkness. At first I'm sure I dreamed the whole thing up, but then he starts talking again. "You want to have this conversation so badly then let's get it over with so you can stop annoying me."


	5. We Can Work It Out

Probably gonna update tomorrow or Thursday and since we're pretty much finished that's gonna be it for a while.

Is there something been bothering you? Are you alright? I wish you'd give me a little clue. Are you alright? Is there something you wanna say? Are you alright? Just tell me that you're okay. Are you alright? 'Cause you took off without a word. Are you alright?  
You flew away like a little bird. Are you alright? Is there anything I can do," Lucinda Williams.

"Just how much of that did you actually hear?" I ask, almost afraid to find out what House might have to say in response. It's not that I didn't mean any of what I said, or even that I wasn't planning on having a conversation similar to this one, eventually, I just… I didn't want it to happen now. I didn't mean for him to hear all of that. The way I think, and the things I am willing to say to him are so far apart, so different and he very well could have heard my deepest and most private thoughts and feelings.

"All of it," he tells me flatly. "At least I think I hear d of all of it. You tend to go on and on, so you could have been rambling for a while before you woke me up." He sort of laughs but stops, as always, when he sees my face. "You didn't say anything you haven't told me a hundred times before."

"I've only said it a hundred times because you don't listen. You just pretend to in order to get me to shut up. You don't care about anything, I get it. You're a big man, not afraid of anything, not gonna let anybody get in your way. You don't give a shit. At least, that's what you want people to thin, but it's not true. You're scared, House. You're afraid to try, because you think you might fail."

"Wooha look out Sigmund Freud—come on, a first year psychology student could tell me that. You want to fix me, maybe it's because you care, but more than that, Jimmy. You wanna prove that you can."

"I love you, and I do care. It hurts, watching you do this. I know, you're in pain, and maybe the pills _are_ the only thing that can help, or maybe you just don't wanna work for the harder stuff and if that was the only reason…"

"You can't just sit there, judging me. This is _my _life, not yours. Just because you can't see the my pain doesn't mean it doesn't exist and just because you think that I have a problem—."

"Yeah, yeah—I get it, I don't know Jack-shit. I don't understand you. Nobody understands you. But isn't it possible that part of the reason for that is because you won't let anybody in?"

"You're in—you're here almost every night and even you don't know how I think, how I feel." He knows that wasn't what I meant, but he's uncomfortable and when he gets like this all he wants to do is shift the blame. If it's my fault then he can go back to his normal life, but if it's something he has to work for, then he might fail and he can't handle failure.

"That's my fault—I'm not as smart as you are, and I screwed up. So if you could just give me another chance, talk to me… I'm your friend; I love you; I just want you to be happy. I'd like it if we could make this thing work."

"So what is it exactly that you want me to do—what you want us to do? You keep on asking me to give you more chances, saying that you want me to be happy, but what does that even mean?"

"Are you asking me what I think you're asking?" Is that what all of this has been about? I know he's unhappy, sad, miserable, depressed. I know he's scared; he feels lost. I know everything is more difficult for him because he didn't grow up normally. He never knew what it was like to be treated decently and so he doesn't know how to treat other people decently. I know he's in pain, lonely, mad. I know his life is hard, but I never could have seen this happen. I never would have figured it out on my own. He's not just unhappy; House doesn't even know what happiness really is.

"Do you really have to ask me that, or is this just you trying to get me to say something in the hopes that I'll have a revelation and let you decide to turn me into whoever you want?" For a long time we just sit there, staring at each other for a while. He knows that I've discovered something, something big. He realized he let it slipped, and now I know another one of the chinks in his amour, I pulled something apart, wrecked something.

It was never that he didn't love me back, or that he didn't was okay with being miserable; because it was easier than the struggle for whatever, reason. He just couldn't do it.

"I think I can show you. I'm not sure how we would do this, but if you wanted, maybe we could help each other. You're not the only one who needs something. My loving you, you caring about me, us being together, could be a good thing. We might even be capable of maintaining a relationship."

"Define real," he says, with a short chuckle. "You're not going to do your usual walking out on me thing, are you?" This is his real question, of course, and so I hardly even pay attention to the fifteen-minute tirade that follows about me and him, and something to do with a hooker…like I said, I'm not really paying attention.

"No, I'm not going to walk away. Just—the next time you have a problem, could you at least pretend like you're going to listen to my advice. I know it doesn't exactly go along with your policy of to Hell with everyone, I do what I want, but not everything I suggest is stupid.

"Not stupid, just not necessarily smart, either. Okay, fine, if you're so damn smart tell me this: how are we going to make things work out? How are _you _going to make _me _happy?"

"I uh—well I was thinking that maybe...alright, so I haven't thought everything through just yet. I'm willing to try, and to keep on trying, even if we don't get it right the first time." I don't have to ask if he's willing to do the same, the question is implied.

"You wanna grab a pizza or something?" he asks, climbing out of bed, either not knowing that it's 3:00 in the morning, or not caring. "I know a place that delivers for another two hours." Then, just as he gets to the bedroom door, he turns around and sort of smiles at me. "If you think this can work, then okay. I'll do it."


	6. From A Lover To A Friend

"From a lover to a friend, take your own advice, let me love again. Now that you turned out to be someone I can trust, someone I believe. Ohh la la la How can I walk when I can't find a way? I have a dilemma, all I want is to tell me you're going to take it away," Paul McCartney.

I think it's the first time since I've known House that he wasn't the one I had to worry about. For once he was the one being reasonable, and someone else was going completely overboard. Of course he did go away on vacation without bothering to tell me, or even asking me if I would mind feeding Steve McQueen while he's gone. I don't mind. Why would I? It's not like I have anything better to do.

Being left alone, without him saying a word, even if it is only for a week, doesn't surprise me. Almost nothing he does surprises me anymore. What does surprise me is the whole walking through the door and finding House passed out on the couch, with the TV turned to the travel Channel. House sits up when I slam the door shut in shock.

"Hey?" he moans, rubbing his eyes sleepily. "What are you doing here?" As if my being at his place when he's supposed to be out of town is the strange part in all of this. As if everything just gets cleaned up and fed by magic.

"Me? You're the one who's supposed to be—where did you even end up deciding to go anyway, and what are you doing here?" I ask, my eyes glancing to the cans of beer lined up like toy soldiers. He looks at me, then at the coffee table, and then back to me before grabbing a bottle of Vicodin, and dropping a handful into his mouth. He looks as though he's about to chew them, but stops, reaches for the nearest of seven or eight beer cans, taking a swig and swallowing.

"What? It's forty-seven steps from the couch to the kitchen, not to mention grabbing a glass from the cabinet, walking to the sink, filling it up, and coming back here. Fine, next time, _you_ get me a glass of water, if it's such a big deal."

"You know better than to mix those with alcohol, and you never answered my—I thought you were going out of town, I came here to feed your rat." He nods, dropping his feet to the floor, and pasts a sofa cushion, at his side.

"I just wanted some time to relax. If everybody knew I was just sitting at home, someone's bound to call or come by, and you know, make me actually do something—work something. I didn't tell you, because I know you'd feel obligated to tell Cuddy." Then he looks back over his shoulder at me, stretching his back and making an umph sound. "Are you gonna stand in the door way all night, 'cause if you are, I wanna put my feet back up."

I watch him for a minute, trying to figure out if he really wants me to be here, before sitting down. "The fe—the baby grabbed my finger and I got this weird—I felt something."

"You weren't expecting him to act like a living person, or was it the feeling something part that's bothering you? You made such a fuss about Cuddy not being objective, so you think that makes you just as guilty, that you did something wrong."

"No—I mean—it was just, unexpected, like you said. I didn't think it—he—the whole time I was thinking of trying to save her, because—and then this tiny, little hand reaches out and touches my finger—I don't even know why it stuck with me, why it bothered me." He clearly doesn't want to talk about this, and frankly I don't see why it can help, so I let him change the subject. Yes, his feeling something is important, it mean's he's not beyond saving, but it doesn't mean he's cured.

"We could always go someplace together, if you wanted…or we can stay in and order pizza. I guess there is a third option, I could always cook something too." House looks over at me, questioningly for a minute or two and then he grins.

"Well, I guess, technically if you cook, it'll taste better, but if we order something we get more time just to ourselves," he says with a small chuckle. "Delivery it is then. You can pick if you want. I trust your judgment, at least when it comes to food anyway."


	7. What I Want

"_Sometimes you picture me–I'm walking too far ahead. You're calling to me I can't hear what you have said–and you say–go slow–I've fallen behind–The second hand unwinds. If you're lost you can look–and you will find me, time after time. If you fall I will catch you–I'll be waiting, time after time_," Cyndi Lauper

Things have been sort of insane the past year or so. It's always crazy with House, but I feel like this time is different. I wonder if I say that a lot. I know I've felt as though his behavior—as if things were at their worst before, and I think that every time I feel as though we've hit rock bottom, House proves me wrong, slipping even lower than I thought possible.

He was right about the whole faking cancer to get drugs thing, it's not the worst thing he's done ever, or even this year. That doesn't make it right, or okay, but it didn't—if no one had found about it, theoretically nobody would have gotten hurt. Maybe I would be less worried about him if that _was _the worst thing he'd done, but it's not. I guess it doesn't matter though. He seems to have revered back to his usual, annoying, mean-spirited, angry, bitter, lonely, and miserable self.

In the end, I suppose it doesn't make a difference what he's done in the past or what he might do. The only way I can survive this thing is to deal with him the way he is now so that he will, hopefully, be alright and one day we might just get the happily ever after that you read about in story books. I don't expect perfect. I'm not even sure I would want that, but every so of ten I wouldn't mind if things weren't completely insane.

"You keep on staring at me like that, and I just might have to start charging you for it. Okay, what have I done this time? You're getting that pouty, concerned look again, so go on, tell me what's bothering you so it doesn't fester until you start annoying me all the time."

"I guess I've just been thinking about the past year, year and a half, and I was trying to figure out whether or not you've learned anything at all from those experiences, from what we—what you—went through."

"Yeah. I learned that I can do just about anything and Cuddy will cover my ass. I learned that even you have a breaking point, a place where someone can get you where you'll completely betray me, and I learned not to get caught the next time I—well I should probably keep those plans under lock and key."

"That's not even remotely funny. I am trying to have a serious conversation here. We've been through a lot and I have to know whether or not it means anything, because if it doesn't then there's no reason to—then we might as well just give in. We might as well stop trying."

House looks up at me like I just punched him in the stomach, and he pops a couple extra pills, completely ignoring the look on my face—the dirtiest I can muster. "You know what, fine. Forget I said anything. I'm gonna get a drink, you want something?"

"I am a man of many talents. I can do a lot of things, but I can't just forget you threatening to walk out of here over something I have absolutely no control over. I know you think you can teach me humanity, one little piece at a time. You think you can fix me, simple as that, but nothing is easy, not the way you think it is." I'm not sure if I should just let that go or if I can win this fight, and maybe make things a little bit better.

"So your theory is, if it's not easy then it's just not worth doing, and you're not going to waste any time trying, huh? If there's a chance you might not make it, then just screw the whole thing? You're pathetic House, and I'm sick of it." Then I storm off into the kitchen, and start to dig through the cabinet, until I find a bottle of bourbon stashed behind a couple boxes of cereal and Ramen Noodles. _Yeah, he hasn't got a problem; everybody hides bottles of booze all over the place. Everybody's got a secret stash._

I shouldn't have called him pathetic. Treating House like dirt isn't going to solve anything. I walk back into the living room with a glass in each hand, one for him, one for me. He's sitting on the couch with his feet up and the Ipod buds in his ears. "I'm sorry. That wasn't—I shouldn't have said that before, the last part, anyway. I had nothing to gain from being cruel and again, I'm sorry for that." I know it's a lousy apology, but that's the best I can do in these circumstances.

"Huh?" he asks, pulling the left bud out and letting it dangle over his chest. "Give me one of those would you? Thanks." House downs the drink with one gulp, wincing and shaking his head. "Look I know I'm not perfect, but you—you can't expect that from me, or anyone else for that matter."

"I don't expect you to be perfect. I don't think that's even possible. I'm just—I watch you and I'm not sure what you might do next, what you might try, and that scares the Hell out of me. I worry about you."

"You worry about everyone, and everything. That's just your nature. It's what you do. You worry. Just tell me one thing, Jimmy. What do you want from me?" House asks, the whole while, staring at this feet, refusing to make eye contact. "I do love you, at least I think I do—it's as close as I'll ever get to that if I don't…but I don't know what you want me to do. Why isn't my feeling that way enough? Tell me what you want me to do."

"I can't do that," I admit, lowering my own eyes, and then he does turn to face me. "I don't know what I want, except. I want to not have to worry as much. I guess I want no I need…I need to know that eventually everything is going to be okay between us. I need to know that one day maybe even you can be alright. I need you to love me. I want to hear you say that more. I want you to try, and I need to know you aren't going to do anything insane. I want—I don't know. I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I know, or if I ever will know."

House stares at me for a long time and then turns away. He looks off into the distance for an even longer time, before taking in a deep breath. Then he sighs and says, "I think I can do that."


	8. Alright

Spoilers for Act Your Age.

"Everything will be alright in the end. If it's not alright, it's not the end," anonymous.

"You know what's funny?" House asks, looking up at me, only momentarily, as I walk through the front door. All things considered, I'm terrified to even answer that question. I'm not even sure I should have come here tonight, but I do miss him. I like being together, being with him, and I love him. Most of the time I think he loves me, has feelings for me, wants us to be together, but sometimes—when he does something like that—I'm just not sure.

"Given the current circumstances, I doubt I can trust your judgment, at least not when it comes to your sick, twisted sense of humor anyway," I snipe, watching his face, hoping for a reaction. I get one, just not the kind I wanted. I don't know hat the male equivalent of a giggle would be called but that is exactly what he does.

"I didn't mean funny in the sense that convincing you Cuddy was falling in love is funny—although you've gotta admit, that was a good one. Give it a couple of days. Anyway, I meant funny as in strange."

"Well there are only a handful, a tiny handful, of things that even remotely interest you, I'm guessing that it's got something to do with work, probably your most recent cause and I really don't wanna talk about work right now, okay?"

As we have been talking I've slowly started making my way towards the couch, step by step, and now I'm standing right over him. House pushes himself up; our lips meet, pressing together. Then suddenly, we're in the bedroom, our naked bodies pushing together, against each other. Afterwards, he sits up in bed, a pillow under his thigh, looking over at me, and still smiling to himself.

"You were right by the way. Xs are kisses. Exactly how long are you planning on holding this grudge for? It was funny! There aren't a lot of good things in live. You've gotta find the reasons to smile wherever you can, and occasionally you have to create them for yourself."

"Okay, I'm making a new rule. You can do whatever you need to find ways to smile just so long as you don't screw with e in ways that can humiliate me in public or cost me my job." He pouts, and then rolls his eyes, folding his arms across his chest.

"Fine," he says with a loud sigh, after a couple of minutes go by. "But you are seriously limiting my list of possible things to smile about. Does humiliating you in public including spraying you with the water fountain so it looks like you wet your pants? Or how about writing on you with a permanent marker after you fall asleep?"

I know I can't give him that sort of an opening, but at the same time I know that if I say n, he'll spend the next couple of weeks coming up with an even crazier, more bizarre, humiliating way to do something that he would consider to be hilarious.

"No to the writing thing, that's just mean, not funny," I tell him, knowing full well that I'm about to get cut off in the middle of my sentence, so I pause, allowing him the time to interject.

"It will be when I do it," he informs me, but nods. "Fine, no big deal, I've got plenty of stuff up my sleeves. Unfortunately I can't say anything else about those." He kisses me, and then smiles. "That is nice. Not as good as watching you kiss Cuddy, but still good."

"As far as the water thing goes, if you can't think of anything more intelligent, then yes, but try to control it so I won't need to keep extra pants in my office, okay?"

"Technically you're up to three new rules, but I'll let you have them. That is, of course, as long as you let me come up with a couple—with one—rule of my very own."

"Fine, but I want to know what it is before I'll agree to it, and I get the final say. I can say no to you the same way you would be able to if I asked for something completely outrageous." House nods when I say this, still smiling a little.

"I haven't actually decided what I'm going to ask for yet. This is kind of like being a kid at Christmas, except that I know you're not gonna give me toy soldiers or a crappy sweater," he says, looking up at the ceiling. "You know technically you've been asking for a lot of stuff from me lately—well maybe 'lately' isn't the best word choice, but the really strange thing is that I don't even mind. I actually couldn't care less about your little quirks."

I feel like reminding him that I'm not the only one with little quirks, eccentricities, that come to think of it, he's got some pretty big quirks, but everything is going so well, and I don't wanna push it. "Do you really think you and I can make it? Do you really think we can be alright?" he asks, looking away from the ceiling and actually turning to face me, making real eye contact.

He rubs his chin, wipes his eyes, fools around with his fingers, touches his hair, all the little nervous twitches I've come to recognize. I'm making him nervous, or rather the idea that he might be right and I could be wrong, is making him nervous. He's terrified that I might say no, or that I'll say yes, but it'll be a lie, and it won't mean anything. "Jimmy?" he asks again.

"Yes, I do. I know it. One day, things are gonna be great, I promise, and if I am wrong, if for some reason things don't work out, you can do absolutely anything you want to me, no matter how humiliating."

House looks me in the eyes for a while, as if he were trying to read my mind and then he nods, silently. After a minute or so more of looking he smiles at me and says, "I can live with that."

"You know I'm almost afraid to remind you of this, but you never did end up telling me what was funny." House responds with a soft grunt. "When I got here, you said something like 'hey you know what's funny?' but then I told you I didn't wanna talk about work so you let it go. You never let anything go. So obviously you're either not saying anything because it's humiliating or you're saving it up. Either way, we're alone here, and I want you to tell me."

He does smile, but doesn't say anything for quite sometime. Maybe he just forgot; maybe it was only funny when he was high. Maybe he's trying to drive me insane and this whole thing was just a play to—stop! He's laughing again.

"I'm sorry, but you are just so much fun to screw around with. I just can't help myself sometimes. It wasn't funny—well you wouldn't think so. I was just picturing you marching into Cuddy's office and kissing her, but the funny thing is, she probably would have liked that."

"Yeah, right. Maybe if you marched into her office and kissed her, but not me. I don't know—this—do you really need to screw with me all the time?" I ask, once again dreading his response.

"No—no, not at all. I don't _need_ to screw with anybody, but it makes my life more fun. It makes me smile…I told you that already…today I think. That whole pushing out your lower lip in that stupid 'I'm trying to make you feel sorry for me,' way doesn't work on me. Oh come on, don't give me that look. I'm not going to just give up on screwing with your head, but you have to—and this doesn't count as my bib demand by the way—you have to be, eat least, a little less annoying if I have to stop screwing with your head as much."

We don't have to shake on the deal. In fact, I don't even try, because Lord knows what he would do to me then. House does smile, lean in, and kiss me though, and eventually we end up panting, covered in sweat and once again collapsed under a thin cotton sheet. This time he says in a quite voice, "goodnight Wilson."

"Good night House," I respond, and I really do mean that. It has been, for the first time in a long time, a good night, and I really do think that maybe everything will be okay after all.


End file.
